In Our Bones
by Here's2tomorrow
Summary: "I refuse to let an opportunity like him vanish into the system!" "And I refuse to let you get THEM involved! One way or another, we will do right by that boy. Somebody has to!" ...After all, according to canon timelines, Tony is only ten years older than Harry...
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: (Insert the usual "I own nothing recognizable" waffle.)

Warning: Basically, real life shit happens, and I will write about it in as much detail as I deem necessary. Read with discretion and at your own risk.

Notice: Pay attention – future chapters are likely to jump back and forth between times and locations and POVs. Let me know if it gets too confusing.

* * *

In Our Bones: Prequel

April 24th, 2009. Afghanistan.

"Hey, Dumbass."

The voice made Tony flinch in his sleep.

"Hey! Dumbass!"

This time, he startled awake and bolted upright, throwing off the thin rag that had passed as a blanket. He peered through the dimness at the narrow slit in the door, then rose and padded cautiously closer, past his still-sleeping cell mate.

"... The fuck are you doing here, Dipshit?!"

The door opened noiselessly, just a crack, and the figure - just as short and stocky as Tony, with the same messy dark hair - slipped inside.

"The fuck does it _look _like I'm doing?!" he hissed. "Honestly! Leave you alone for a few years and look what happens."

"Had to get your attention somehow," Tony griped halfheartedly, his eyes never leaving the smaller man as he immediately set to work and whisked around the cell, snatching papers and bits of equipment and stuffing it all in a little hip pouch.

Yinsen was awake now, watching them with baffled curiosity from his pallet.

"Stark?" he asked softly.

Both men glanced at him, but it was Tony who answered. "Apparently we're being rescued."

"Well_, you_," the newcomer corrected, "but I guess suspicious doctor guy can come, too."

"Thanks," Yinsen said dryly.

"Don't mention it." Finished with his whirlwind packing, the young man came to a stop in front of Tony. "Ready?" he asked.

The displaced billionaire scanned the other man's face searchingly, holding his gaze for a moment that almost seemed to stretch interminably. Then, reassured, his face split into a grin and he pulled the other man into a brief, tight embrace.

"Nearly," he said, turning to pull the sheet off the scattered metal components on the workbench. "Help me get this on. It's not _quite_ finished yet, but it'll have to do."

"I'll get the computer going," Yinsen added, scrambling towards the monitor as the other two pairs of hands worked in deft coordination to assemble Tony's armour, barely a word of instruction exchanged between them.

"Good," Tony declared, both tasks wrapping up, "Now we're ready." He nodded decisively, not a hint of hesitation or distrust on his face. "Get us out of here, Harry."


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: You guys… you guys have totally blown me away. I am both flabbergasted and humbled, and will do my best to be worthy of all the favorites and follows.

* * *

In Our Bones: Chapter 1

November 1st, 1981. England.

Once upon a time, when he was younger, getting lost in strange places had given Howard a sort of rebellious thrill. Nowadays it was just another annoyance in the string of inconveniences that typified a business trip - especially one overseas.

He'd almost hit the child before he saw him, wandering down the middle of the road on the outskirts of a stereotypical suburb.

Slamming the breaks, Howard hastily pulled the car over and fumbled with his seatbelt, fairly leapt out the door and across the road to where the toddler stood innocently in his red and gold onesie, face coated in tears and dirt and whimpering past the thumb in his mouth, his other hand clutching the corner of a small, grimy blanket.

Dropping to one knee in front of the tot, Howard scanned the boy carefully for injuries, mind whirling with adrenaline and emotion. The little boy stared at him blankly, sniffling, then took the hand out of his mouth and scrubbed it across his face, adding slobber to the tears and dirt to the hand, which was promptly replaced in his mouth.

"Are you hurt?" Howard managed finally.

The toddler considered for a moment and shook his head.

Howard sighed and reached towards the boy. "Let's get you out of the road, hmm?"

The boy allowed himself to be carried with only perfunctory squirming, most of which was an excuse to wipe his face off on the shoulder of Howard's suit. At the edge of the road, Howard set the tot down and crouched beside him as his brain settled back into the more familiar rhythms of logic, calculating and strategizing and planning.

"Where are your parents, son?"

The boy just looked at him. Howard sighed and tried again, thinking of his own lad at this age. "My name is Howard. Can you tell me your name?"

The boy hesitated, then offered a muffled "Hawwy" around the dripping thumb.

"Harry, is that your house?" Howard asked, pointing to the nearest residence.

The tot shook his head slowly.

"Do you know where you live?"

Another negative. Howard sighed again through his nose, contemplating. "Harry," he asked finally, "what happened to your mommy and daddy?"

The little boy shrugged, but finally removed the hand from his mouth, smearing it across his blanket instead. "…Daddy falled down," he murmured. "Mummy falled down, too."

"They fell down?" Howard prompted, hoping for more translatable toddler clarification.

Harry nodded. "Bad man made dem fall down wif bad magic, an' dey not stand up aftah." He sniffled, rubbing at his face with his blanket. "Want Mummy."

Howard swallowed. "I know, Harry. What do you mean, the man did bad magic?" he pressed gently, trying to hold the boy's focus.

"Bad spell," the boy explained, "like dis." Untangling one hand from the blanket, Harry pointed one chubby finger and threw it towards a clump of grass a few feet away, as if tossing a rock, and babbled seriously, "Avva a davva. An'," he added, "wif gween light, too, like dis."

And to Howard's utter astonishment, a tiny firework of bright green sparks shot from the tip of that tiny finger.

His world paused, twisted ninety seven degrees off its axis, hesitated, then settled into a whole new pattern of concepts; foundations rumbling, fissuring, and finally reordering themselves to match the new orientation.

"Huh."

The little boy sniffed again, and time restarted. "Want Mummy," he repeated plaintively.

Howard took a breath. "I know, little guy. We'll… Let's get back to my hotel," he suggested after only another moment's consideration, pushing stiffly to his feet. "We'll get you cleaned up and tucked in, and then I'll try to find your mummy and daddy. Sound good?"

Harry nodded hesitantly. "Pwomise? M'wah'dah's onnow?"

Howard raised an eyebrow, translating as quickly as possible and hoping for the best. "…Promise. Marauder's honor."

The toddler gave another solemn nod and raised his arms to be picked up.

* * *

Howard had thought that getting lost was frustrating. He was right, of course, but in comparison to the next several hours, he felt naïve for having thought so.

No, handling the car ride was frustrating. Harry acted like he'd never been in an automobile before, alternately fascinated and terrified, and Howard's inventing genius was put to the test trying to rig a secure toddler seat from his son's low booster seat. Like most tots, Harry mercifully fell asleep after just a few minutes of the gentle hum and motion of the car – the moment Howard parked and began to unstrap the boy, however, he woke and flew directly into another fit of terror that took several minutes for Howard to calm.

Getting settled into his hotel room was frustrating. The receptionist eyed them curiously as they passed, sharp-suited business man and dirty, red-faced little boy forming an unusual picture. In the room, the tot drank very carefully from a cup, to Howard's relief, which dissolved into exhausted annoyance when the granola bar he gave the boy to munch on ended up coating floor and furniture in more crumbs than seemed strictly possible. Bath time, luckily, was met with utter delight, but afterwards Howard was faced with yet another problem: what was the boy to wear? Eventually he settled on fashioning an older undershirt into a makeshift cloth nappy and leaving the toddler otherwise bare. He'd figure out the rest in the daytime.

Bedtime was frustrating. Trying to separate the boy from his blanket resulted in an outright tantrum, and Howard finally gave in, washed the bit of cloth in the tub with Harry, wrung it out as thoroughly as possible, and resigned himself to a damp bed. Better than a screaming toddler, and definitely better damp than disgusting. The little boy climbed agreeably into bed, but then requested a story or a lullaby, neither of which Howard felt qualified to provide, and entirely refused to go to sleep unless draped across Howard's chest, damp blanket and all.

The whole long, adrenaline-filled, world-changing evening was frustrating.

It had absolutely nothing on the days that followed.

* * *

When morning came, Howard's first order of business was food, followed closely by clothing for his new charge. The toddler's cloth nappy and onesie from the night before, soaped and rinsed and wrung out after his bath, were now cleanish and mostly dry, but without supplies tonight would see another of Howard's shirts sacrificed, which he would rather avoid. So, he ordered them up a light breakfast, wrangled the squirming tot back into his original clothes, and began rearranging his schedule for the day.

An hour and a half later, Howard left the nearest department store with three new outfits, a pack of pull-ups, and a beeping, flashing toy for Harry, which occupied the tot nicely during stop number two: the only business meeting Howard hadn't been able to reschedule. The man he was meeting had hardly even glanced at the little boy playing in the corner of their conference room.

Then, finally, stop number three: a phone booth, to start pulling some strings. It was nice to have a wide network of 'friends' who wouldn't ask questions.

The information he compiled was… interesting. In the past three days, the overall crime rate had skyrocketed all across the UK, although – aside from a handful of localized deaths and two house fires, all deemed accidental – the spike consisted mainly of petty misdemeanors and nuisance crimes; fireworks and noisy parties, public drunkenness, minor harassment, and the like.

Nowhere was there a recent missing child report, or murders that matched the toddler's description.

This made things… simpler. And more complicated.

And Howard never could resist a good mystery.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N 1: Y'all's enthusiasm is inspirational - thank you so much!

2: In answer to a couple of delightful reviews... wait and see!

3: In answer to another review, if I allow myself to post short chapters, I can keep my muse rolling and I stay excited about sharing what I've written. I've learned from experience that longer chapters and therefore longer gaps between chapters mean I'm more likely to lose momentum until I drop off the face of the earth for years at a time.

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In Our Bones: Chapter 2

April 24th, 2009. Afghanistan.

Yinsen was dead.

It was odd. He'd only known the guy for two and a half months; Tony didn't feel like his death should affect him too much. Then again, for those two and a half months, Yinsen was the closest thing to a friend Tony had had in their dark, cramped, anxiety-ridden little world; maybe mourning him was justified, after all.

It didn't help that it had been so pointless. Between Tony's suit and Harry's talents, with Yinsen as backup, their escape was all but a walk in the park, and they were mere yards from freedom when Yinsen had just… stepped out of cover into a hail of bullets with half a smile on his face.

Somewhere during the last few hours, it had occurred to Tony that distracting himself from their current predicament by dwelling on the death of his sort-of-friend was probably not healthy, but damn it all, he was so thirsty it hurt – so tired and battered and hot and hungry – and it was easier to keep putting one foot in front of the other if his mind was miles away.

The armour had carried them – him and Harry – past the first couple of hills, just barely, but after that it had been up to their own legs. At first Tony had piteously bemoaned Harry's refusal to apparate, and Harry had reminded him, with an exaggerated eye roll and a few choice words, of the infeasibility of apparition in a landscape that constantly changed, and that the whole point of this expedition was to _not_ die.

Not dying would have been helped, Tony was sure, by access to some sort of water. The scant trickle that Harry's aguamenti was able to wring from the desert air hardly counted.

Food would have been nice, too. Like, oh, maybe some _water_melon?

Damn Gamp's Laws, and damn the logic of secrecy.

"What good is a bag of holding," Tony had griped early on, "if you don't carry emergency supplies in it?"

"I do," Harry informed him simply.

"Then why in the hell that we're in haven't you gotten them out?!"

"Because there's always someone smart enough to ask questions," the younger man had quoted.

Tony understood, then. Remembered. How could he not?

He stopped whining after that. Out loud, at least.

Most of their minor injuries were healed, and they wouldn't die from the heat until Harry got too exhausted to keep up the constant cooling charms, and the "point me", though directed only vaguely towards the nearest civilization, seemed effective. Nonetheless, after thirteen hours of trudging through endless, identical sand dunes, getting more sun-burnt by the minute, Tony had decided (for what he estimated to be at least the twenty-eighth time – once for every year since he'd met Harry) that magic was _useless._

He projected the thought as loudly as he could at the younger man, but didn't waste the energy for speech. Neither of them had said more than a couple of sentences since beginning their trek, and Tony wasn't about to break first. He was too tired for it now anyway.

Still, when he wasn't watching his feet, his eyes were fixed on his companion's back, and he felt the intent gaze returned every time he stumbled and looked away.

It said something, he realized painfully, that it was easier to think about his dead friend than about his little brother. But maybe that was just habit; he'd spent the last decade trying not to think about his little brother. Now it was difficult, and bizarre; even after ten years Tony still imagined Harry as the timid little boy he was raised with, or the angry teen who left… and it was hard to reconcile that image with the grown man, rough-edged and confident, who marched resolutely ahead of him.

Ten years. Of all the things to reunite them, being held hostage by arms dealers in the middle of an Afghanistan desert was not something he'd expected.

And then, abruptly, it was over. An army helicopter passed overhead, and Tony pulled the grimy jacket off his head and waved it frantically, joyously, and just like that, they were rescued.

When the 'copter landed, something deep in Tony's gut fully expected to turn from his greeting to find that Harry was gone – had perhaps never actually been there at all – but to his astonishment, his brother remained, dirty and sweat-stained and as unflappably British as Jarvis himself. And then he turned around again and Rhodey was there, leaping from the helicopter and hugging him despite how gross he knew he was, arms strong and desperate and _safe._

Tony knew the instant Rhodey recognized Harry; he tensed and released Tony almost roughly to glance back and forth between the brothers. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then stepped back towards the door of the 'copter and said, holding an arm out in invitation to both men, "Come on, let's get you home."

That's what Tony loved about Rhodey; he always knew just what to say, and what not to say. Tony heaved himself aboard the 'copter and climbed into the back seat, squeezing as close to the far window as possible to make room, and Harry – there was something almost surreal about it, both familiar and unexpected – Harry followed him.

Two days later, when they finally set foot on American soil again, Harry was still following him. They had hardly spoken in the interim, but like a shadow in evening sun, Harry had remained almost constantly at his shoulder, calm and steadfast, answering the inevitable barrage of questions with his customary polite, subtle evasiveness that left gullible interviewers satiated on worthless half-truths.

He was even better at it than Tony remembered.

That was a good thing, though, this time. With his brother occupying the piranhas, Tony took the opportunity to do some serious thinking, and he had reached several conclusions that set his nerves buzzing with anxious anticipation.

One: Only one person in Stark Industries had the authority and influence to be able to sell massive amounts of weaponry under the table. Ergo, certain major changes to the SI staff were long overdue.

Two: Far more innocent people had faced death on the business end of Stark weaponry than he was comfortable with. Ergo, certain major changes to the SI mission and business focus were also long overdue.

Three: He had absolutely no idea whatsoever what to expect from Harry. Ergo, he was at a very uncomfortable loss as to how to plan around, for, or with Harry. Worst of all… he was more than a little bit afraid to broach the subject.

And four…

He really, really, _really_ wanted to build another suit.


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: Insert the usual apologetic banalities about the encroachments of real life and the flightiness of time…

On a truly sincere note, however, a million thank-yous to those who have followed, favorited, and reviewed; every notice that pops up in my email grants another little spark of motivation.

* * *

In Our Bones: Chapter 3

December 18th, 1981. New York, USA.

During his Hogwarts years, and later as an adult, Harry would think about the weeks that directly succeeded his arrival at the Stark home with wistful nostalgia. Those days, little more than a month and a half, encompassed almost the entirety of his "sweet spot" – the brief period of time when he truly was "too young to understand". He was greatly upset by the unexplained absence of his Mummy and Daddy, of course, but he had a whole new house to explore, much bigger than the confined world of the cottage he was used to, and Mister Jarvis and Mama were there to see to his every need.

Except when Mama was yelling at Father, that is. She did that quit a lot, he remembered, especially in those first couple of weeks. They tried to keep the arguments out of his earshot behind closed doors, but he caught snatches of several of them regardless, and although other memories dimmed with time, these pieces of conversations stuck with Harry for the rest of his life; measured it by changes in the feelings they evoked.

"_If you don't call the authorities, and it comes out later? Kidnapping? AND inciting an international incident – again?! You'd be put away for YEARS! What of the company, Howard? What of me and Tony?!"_

At first, it was only confusion, almost indifference. Although the tones of the voices were alarming, the words themselves held little meaning.

"_Maria, you don't understand! No one's looking for him; I've checked. And what I saw him do… This boy puts me on the verge of the most earth-shaking breakthrough the world has ever seen! I refuse to let an opportunity like him vanish into the system."_

Months and years later, the words became piercing weapons, hissed by his brother as painful reminders of what – and who – their father did and didn't care for.

_"And I refuse to let you get THEM involved! He's a PERSON, damn you! A helpless baby! Not a science project!" _

At the same time, they were also a reminder – sweet, and then bittersweet – of how much Mama _did_ care.

"_God, Maria, I didn't mean… I do want to help the boy, of course. But I want to be able to watch him, too; with abilities like that, he'll need guidance and protection; someone to work with him and teach him control."_

Later still, it was just a statement of fact: Harry was _different, _and everyone wanted to know why, and however well-meaning they were or pretended to be, it always resulted in some form of pain for him.

"_Then do it properly. Make him ours. I swear, one way or another, we WILL do right by that boy. Somebody has to!"_

Except Mama. In Harry's eyes, Mama was invincible and infallible, and her honor was sacrosanct – an outlook that precipitated the majority of his childhood tussles, barring those with his brother, who was of much the same opinion – one of the very few things the boys would agree on.

* * *

As expected, their arrival had been… Well, at least they had had a few weeks before Tony got home from school. Howard wasn't sure he could have dealt with his wife and son at the same time.

_Sons_, now. Plural. The idea hadn't even occurred to him, but in hindsight it made perfect sense on multiple levels. His own childhood had jaded Howard to the harsh realities of the world, but Maria was right; no child deserved to grow up unwanted. And if Harry was theirs, few could dispute Howard's right to raise and train the boy as he saw fit, and he would have full control over any studies done on the boy's abilities.

And, fascinating project or not, a second son… a second son meant a second chance. Tony was all but a young man now, by their standards, and Howard… there were things he would like to have done differently.

It was surprisingly easy to arrange, too. Mostly Edwin Jarvis' work, and made simpler by the fact that Maria generally kept out of the public eye and was still young enough to have plausibly born another child. Tony also, barring the prideful announcement shortly after his birth, had stayed mainly on the manor grounds until he started school, so it wouldn't be strange for a second child to do the same…

Especially if – and this was the real kicker, the compelling addendum that would lend credibility to Harry's 'origin story' as well as his projected frequent disappearances into Howard's lab – the child was a sickly one, premature or the product of a difficult birth, who required intensive and constant care in his early days; who even, perhaps, hadn't been expected to live, but had now recovered sufficiently to be introduced to the world, thanks to the tireless efforts of their family doctor – a man who Howard both considered a friend, persuadable to the charitable fabrication of a family for an abandoned orphan, and… just in case… who he had blackmail on, as well.

All in all, absorbing little Harry into Howard's family was both a logical course of action, and a piece of cake.

That is… not counting Tony.

* * *

Tony had already been waiting at the pick-up point outside his school, luggage in hand, for the better part of an hour when Mister Jarvis arrived. Which is not to say that Mister Jarvis was late, of course – Mister Jarvis was never late – in fact, he was approximately half an hour early in this instance. It was just that Tony was _so_ ready to leave that he had for once been completely organized and packed practically since he woke up that morning.

School was _abysmal._

By the time the familiar black car drew to a stop curbside, Tony was practically quivering with excitement, and when Mister Jarvis stepped out to open the door for him, Tony threw himself on the man in a tight, sloppy embrace, and then threw himself into his seat with equal enthusiasm, fumbling with the buckle as Mister Jarvis stashed his suitcase in the trunk.

School was _deplorable._

Mister Jarvis folded himself into the driver's seat and smiled over his shoulder at Tony, asking, "Are you ready to go home, young sir?"

"Oh yes," Tony replied immediately, "quick as you can, Mister Jarvis."

School was _repugnant._ Tony proceeded to tell Mister Jarvis so at great length and with verbose reasoning, using the word 'repugnant' several times as a matter of principle because it was his new favorite. Mister Jarvis, as usual, 'hmm'ed and 'ahh'ed agreeably and nodded in all the right places, letting out the occasional "You don't say?" and "Well I never!" when appropriate.

Tony loved this about Mister Jarvis, and loved even more that Mister Jarvis didn't seem to mind how Tony stored up months of disgruntled rants just so he could unload them on his favorite victim.

It took quite a while to do, this unloading, so the trip was halfway over before Tony noticed that the butler was rather tense, and his responses somewhat stiffer than usual.

"Hmm," Mister Jarvis said, for approximately the two hundred and third time, when Tony pried. "There are… certain changes awaiting you at home, young sir," he revealed evasively, "but it is not my place to explain, I should think."

"What… Is Mama okay?" Tony demanded, "And Father?"

Mister Jarvis blinked in apparent surprise, then smiled. "Oh yes, they are both quite well. Nothing like that, Tony, don't you worry."

Dissatisfied, but assured of the butler's sincerity more by the use of his name than by the platitudes, Tony relaxed back into his seat, frowning. After several minutes of anxious silence, however, they passed a scene that made Tony think of something that had happened at school, and he was off again, the anticipation of an uncertain future relegated to the same mental corner where all boys of about eleven banish such thoughts, to be nestled alongside other troublesome ideas like 'consequences'.

Some such boys – even those as clever as Tony – never stop.


	5. Chapter 4

Author's note: …So I got distracted… By Good Omens. It was worth it. _So _worth it.

* * *

In Our Bones: Chapter 4

September 1st, 1991. Scotland.

Somewhere up there, _somebody_ had a really sick sense of humour. They must do, else why would his life be such an endless chain of bizarre unpleasantnesses?

"_At least this is still better than being at home,"_ Harry thought grimly… "_for now._"

He smirked a little as another gawking goldfish rattled the compartment handle ineffectually. After the first three, Harry had given up on making acquaintances or having anything resembling intelligent conversation during the train ride, locked and hexed the door, and fished one of the more interesting books out of his trunk. He knew, of course, that he'd have to get used to his future classmates sooner or later, but for the time being, at least he could enjoy some relative peace.

An hour and a half into the journey, the disturbances slowed to a trickle. After purchasing a couple of pastries from the trolley witch, Harry shut his book and exchanged it for a hardcover journal, so new that the binding creaked when he opened it. He fished out one of three identical fountain pens that wrote in an elegant navy ink, and held it poised above the fourth page.

If anyone else had been able to read the script already on the paper, they would have seen a neat table with three columns titled "Question", "Topic", and "Page". On the first row, under "Question", was written, "Why did no one search for Harry Potter?" The spaces for topic and page were blank. The following several rows read:

"Standardized equivalents of my abilities? – Magic – 6"

"Standardized magic I can adapt? – Magic – 9"

"Voldemort's true identity? – Voldemort – 14"

"Cultural expectations of 'Harry Potter' as 'Boy-Who-Lived'? – Wix Society – 16"

"Cultural expectations of 'Harry Potter' as Potter family heir? – Wix Society (c/r Potter Family) – 17, 20"

"Albus Dumbledore's involvement in war against Voldemort? – Dumbledore (c/r Voldemort) – 26"

"Potter family's friends and allies? – Potter Family – 23"

Taking a moment to arrange the words in his head, Harry lowered the pen and added:

"Hogwarts curriculum vs other schools of magic? – Hogwarts"

"Hogwarts statistics vs other schools of magic? – Hogwarts"

"Subjects not covered at Hogwarts? – Hogwarts (c/r Magic) – 12"

Then, after several seconds of hesitation, he moved the pen up to the blank spaces after the very first question. His hand jerked a little in uncharacteristic clumsiness, scratching the nib across the paper and leaving a blot of ink that obscured two of the letters, but the words were still legible.

"Dumbledore – 28"

* * *

April 27th, 2009. Somewhere over the eastern US seaboard.

"I want to hold a press conference," Tony started without preamble. He and Harry were alone in the back of the private plane, finally on their way home. Or Tony's way home, at least – Harry had never been to the Malibu mansion, and Tony was sure his younger sibling didn't intend to stay long enough to consider the place 'home'.

"A press conference?"

The last two days (it felt like much more, but apparently it had indeed been the 25th by the time they'd been rescued from the desert) had been a whirlwind of German hospitals and debriefings, but Tony was far from exhausted. A constant low level of adrenaline hummed through his body (likely a remnant of his ceaselessly on-edge existence of the past couple months – the doctors had mentioned PTSD – but he didn't care about that right now) and the sand and heat and metal and battle-excitement had drained from his mind, leaving a cold, focused clarity and a different kind of primed anxiety.

"As soon as we get to LA," he confirmed. "I'm… I want to pull Stark Industries out of weapons manufacturing, effective immediately."

He watched intently for his brother's reaction. The move was well within his power as CEO, but Harry had never relinquished his shares and technically still had major voting rights in the company, although Obie had been acting as his proxy. And… damn him, but Harry's opinion _mattered._

The younger man mulled it over.

"About bloody time," he said finally, and Tony gave a minuscule sigh of relief, lips quirking into a tight smile. "But," he added, leaning forward to rest elbows and folded hands on the table between them, and Tony's spine tightened again, "I'm not sure an immediate press conference is the way to go."

"…Why's that, then?"

"Obadiah," Harry intoned.

Tony blinked at him.

"Oh, come on," the younger man exclaimed in exasperation, "don't tell me you haven't pieced it all together yet – you're smarter than that!"

"No, I have," Tony defended, "It's just, I didn't realize that you…"

"What," Harry spat, "that I was smart enough to do it, too?"

"No, of course you are!" Tony backpedaled quickly from the dangerous territory. "I just… didn't think you'd… y'know… kept up to date on the company, and all."

Harry deflated immediately. His mouth and shoulders tightened in a tiny shrug, half response and half apology. "I never stopped," he mumbled.

It took two to make the careful dance around old issues, and they were pros. Tony gave a clipped sideways nod and soldiered on as if the entire altercation hadn't happened. "And I'm not entirely sure what he has to do with the press conference."

Harry nodded, and if he was grateful for the avoidance that was the only sign. "If we're to make a move against him, we'll need to gather up some rock solid evidence first. If we just try to pull the rug out from under his feet in one go, things could get messy fast. Plus, there's the board to contend with, as well as SI's partners and patrons. We drop a big change like that on everybody, there'll be a riot."

Tony took a moment to work through all of that – his brain kept snagging on Harry's use of 'we'. Eventually, though, he frowned. "So, what – we keep producing weapons? I'm getting some mixed signals here, man."

Harry shook his head. "I'm just saying you need a plan and some subtlety."

Tony's frown deepened. "Any suggestions?" he asked sardonically.

Harry, unfazed, rubbed his thumbs together thoughtfully. "Draw up a proposal for a six month action plan to phase out weapons. Sit down with the board – make sure Obadiah is occupied elsewhere. _Be professional_. Explain that some things have come to light that you're concerned about, that you believe have put the reputation of the company and all its representatives at risk. Emphasize how bad it would make everyone look; how much they stand to lose.

"Then tell them you've devised a way to sufficiently distance SI from any potential fall-out. Be frank with them; tell them about your experiences with the Ten Rings, preferably with photographic evidence of their or other terrorist organizations' possession of Stark weaponry. Tell them you are personally looking into how they came to be there.

"Then go over your action plan. They'll probably want to extend it to two years; talk them back down to one. Let them argue over details and minor adjustments for a while. The more they discuss it, the more they'll consider it their idea and the less trouble they'll give you."

Tony raised his eyebrows skeptically, unwilling to admit that he was impressed and surprised by his brother's business insight. "Then what?"

"Implement the business plan. Let the word get back to Obadiah. Wait for him to make a mistake. Keep your eyes open and your guard up."

Tony pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. "And… where will you be," he ventured, "while I'm doing all this?"

Harry copied the motion, snagging his glass of water to take a sip along the way. "Snooping," he drawled. "And installing a few wards, if you'll let me."

"Mm. JARVIS won't like that."

Harry's eyes flashed up to him in surprise.

"Oh." Tony cleared his throat. "My AI. Runs the house. 'S… s'posed to stand for 'Just A Rather Very Intelligent System'. Y'know… in… I dunno… honor or something."

"Ah." Harry gave a jerky little nod, noncommittal. He swapped out the water glass for a flask, summoned from his hip pouch, from which he took a generous swig. Tony held out a hand, smirking hopefully.

"'S not alcohol," Harry muttered with a smirk of his own, "you wouldn't want it." The flask disappeared back into the pouch, and Tony pouted.

He fidgeted briefly, then leaned over to push a button on the wall. A panel popped open, revealing a small but well-stocked cooler. He let his fingers dance over the bottles for a moment, selected the Scotch, a tumbler, and some ice, then relaxed back into his seat, the smirk returning with triumphant force.

Harry rolled his eyes. Tony took a sip, then passed the bottle and a second tumbler.

In less than three hours, he'd be home, with Pepper and Happy and real American cheeseburgers and an actual plan and – for the first time in over a decade – his baby brother, who hadn't even alluded to leaving.

The knot in his gut unwound, just a little.


End file.
